


gimme little sign

by sleeplessandcynical



Category: Professional Wrestling
Genre: Accidental Kissing, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Awkward Flirting, Eventual Smut, Explicit Consent, Fluff and Smut, I Do This I Do That, Idiots in Love, Not Kayfabe Compliant, One Shot, Other, POV First Person, Prank Wars, Wrestling, gender-neutral oc, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-11 07:45:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11143986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeplessandcynical/pseuds/sleeplessandcynical
Summary: OC volunteers to teach a class with their crush, Joey. things get real silly, real fast. nobody knows what to do from there. except maybe Candice.soundtrack: Brenton Wood - Oogum Boogum - "Gimme Little Sign" (1967)





	gimme little sign

**Author's Note:**

> first, i apologize to anyone who is subscribed to me because i've been having a lot of brain problems, which means i am listening to a lot of old soul music and knocking out a shitton of words and blowing up your inboxes with all those hours i'm not sleeping. but on a decent note, this means taking a break from some of the heavy shit I've been writing lately for the equivalent of cotton candy because my brain needs it. 
> 
> this is my very first time ever writing Joey Ryan, in my quest to fic ALL the wrestlers. my headcanons, in case you were wondering, include that he is a purely consensual sleaze, and also a really good salsa dancer. i have no idea why, especially the latter. it's just a thing that happened.
> 
> (also, OC is gender-neutral but has a vagina/sex organs commonly associated with AFAB folx.)

_if you do want me, gimme little sugar_  
_if you don't want me, don't lead me on, girl_  
_but if you need me, show me that you love me_  
_and when i'm feeling blue and i want you_  
_there's just one thing that you should do_

 _just gimme some kind of sign, girl_  
_oh my baby_  
_to show me that you're mine, girl_  
_oh yeah_

 

* * *

 

Fresh off what feels like the nine thousandth airplane of my year so far, I am already wiped before I even park my rental and pop the front doors to the gym.  _Why do you always say yes to these things? You could be home sleeping in for once in your damn life._

But even I know that's a lie, because nobody asked me to be here. I'm the one who made the call to Candice, made the offer, told her I could do the job if she wanted, even though it isn't that far from home for her. She could take it easy and be with Johnny. Especially right now. One less thing to worry about. (She doesn't know yet that I'm still giving her half the money.)

_Me and my big mouth_ , I think, shifting my bag to the shoulder that doesn't twinge, but I can't help my smile. I just enjoy complaining the way other people enjoy, I dunno, rock climbing, or wine tasting. Besides, I owe Candice, as much as she'd insist otherwise; a few months ago, she and she alone bolted headlong out of a New Jersey locker room to help me when I was getting practically mugged by a half-dozen sniveling little baby baddies wearing enough ugly face paint to clog my pores for a lifetime. I've been in the business of beating people up for longer than my fair share, but I've only got two fists. Plus, honestly, I just like her, and her little family is going through some _shit_ right now.

And that's how I find myself in this city. On my week off. Getting ready to teach an intensive to a bunch of shiny precious baby pro wrestlers. With none other than the King of fucking Dong Style _\- seriously, though, how can **I** get a nickname that good? -_ himself, Mr. Joey Ryan, a guy whose travel schedule is actually worse than mine. As a result, I've met him maybe twice, seen him in action a few times more, and he's always been downright amiable to me, but I know he has a... _reputation_ to beat the band.

I wander around for a while, making sure I've got the general layout right in my head. I've been here before, although not in close to a year, and it's one of my favorite places to work - surprisingly expansive for a wrestling gym, probably because it hosts a veritable boatload of other combat sports, from amateur wrestling to MMA, and the equipment is well-loved but impeccably maintained. I'm very much looking forward to running some drills with the staff, who I'm hoping are as great as I remember.

And speak of the devil, I turn the corner and find the facility owner and his son in their shared office, grumbling over a stack of paperwork. They greet me with a hug and a handshake, and at their invitation, I drop the bag and sit down.

"First off, let me apologize for not being Candice -" I say with a smile.

The owner interrupts me with one of his own. "Hey, we missed you! Would have been great to have the team here, of course, but no doubt you'll do a fine job. I'm sure she's glad to have a little time off, and we're glad to have you. Actually just got off the phone with her right before you came in and she said she might pop by to say hi."

"Yeah, she told me that she was thinking about it, and I told her she wasn't allowed to _work_ , but she gave me a few pointers anyway." I rake my fingers through my hair, which is longer than I like it, but there's never enough time in the world, and I don't have to  _look_ good to  _teach_ good.

"So I take it you and Joey have never worked together?"

"No, sir. Just brushed shoulders a time or two. But he knows his business, and I know mine, so I don't anticipate anything coming up that we can't handle. Candice gave me the syllabus, too. But you know me - holler if there's anything."

"Will do. Now get the fuck out of here, I know you must be jetlagged as hell."

We shake hands again, and I pick up my gear and make another slow lap around the building before heading back out to the car. It's cloudy and quiet, just how I like it, and I've just thrown my bag in the trunk when my phone goes off.

_**Candice:** _ _hey do you mind if I give you Joey's number? knowing him, he'll wanna talk tactics before tomorrow. His flight lands in an hour or something like that.  
__**me:** _ _yeah sure, that makes sense._

She sends me the number, and I figure I'll do one better and fire off a text for when he arrives.

_**me:** _ _yo JR, it's the world's ugliest teaching partner. You want a ride from the airport?_

I plug my phone into the stereo, crank everything to 11, and head to my hotel for check-in, a very hot shower, and maybe a beer.

I get two of those things before my phone pings.

_**Joey:** _ _hey you! That would be awesome. C said we're at the same hotel._

* * *

"World's ugliest, my _ass_ ," says the mustache of the hour as he throws his stuff in the backseat and climbs into my car.

I make a big show of pretending to ogle him while he does. "Don't talk about your ass that way; we've all seen enough of it to know that's not true." I realize I'm not really pretending. He's pretty fucking cute, cuter still up close, even flight-tired and rumpled. I'm a sucker for a good pair of shoulders in a good leather jacket.

An hour later, we're at the hotel bar trading smart remarks over dinner and he's making me laugh in a very undignified fashion. He's hunched over the obnoxious neon sketchbook I use, carefully examining my Sharpied scrawl. His freshly-washed wet hair keeps falling in his face and I'm fighting the urge to brush it back when suddenly he grabs the marker, looks at me tenderly, and swipes it over my upper lip.

I recoil, swatting at his hand, but the damage is done and I feel like Murray Hill.

He grins. "That's better. Now we really _look_  like a team."

I'm scrubbing at my face knowing I'm just smearing it around and making things worse. It won't all come off and the pitying bartender brings me a damp paper towel. I make a mental note to leave a really big tip. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

He shrugs his shoulders, that shit-eating smile still plastered across his face. "How much time do you have?"

"You know this means war, right?"

Motherfucker  _winks_ at me. "All's fair."

He isn't saying that the next day when somebody mysteriously happens to break into his locker and fill his boots with glitter. Not my fault I've got a source who knows he's been using the same combination lock for the last two years. 

"I hate you," he says, trying to glower.

"It's okay, I hate you too," I say, putting together my best innocent face.

Nobody's really selling  _or_ buying. 

We start out trading classes; he handles character development, which even I have to admit is fucking brilliant. Most of this week is meant to focus on in-ring presentation - projection, personality, audience interaction, entrances and exits - with a bit of actual fighting here and there, and he's clearly more than qualified for the gig. I pull up a chair in the back of the room and make eyes, trying to distract him, but I don't think he even notices I'm there. In the next segment, I get up and talk about entrance music, which is more complicated than people think when you're dealing with cues and blown-out PAs and that weird echo you get in some venues that makes everything sound like mud. 

We decide to close out the day by running a bunch of drills after break. He's still wiping glitter off _everything_ , and I realize I'm probably going to have to take him to the hotel, then come back and clean up the mess I made. Worth it. I _also_ realize in the bathroom that, despite all efforts, I've still got some Sharpie five o'clock shadow on my face. Great.

The whole small group is surprisingly diverse in terms of size and experience, but there's one guy in the room who is much smaller than average - about eye-to-eye with me - and so I pull Joey aside when I get back and we sit down on a couple of chairs and angle towards each other. Our knees bump, and he backs up and apologizes until I tell him it's fine and then he moves back into my personal space. I can't tell if he wants to be there or if it's just another joke. I'm not sure I care - he smells incredible, and the chest hair sneaking out from his t-shirt is genuinely distracting. I realize one of the things I like about him, given that I rarely crush on other wrestlers -

_Oh, you said it. That makes it real. Good job._

\- is that he's not shaved down and greased up and dehydrated 24/7. As someone who wrestles in glorified board shorts, it's kinda nice to be around someone for whom this is silly and fun again.

"I'm thinking we run some BJJ-type stuff, emphasis on handling size differentials," I offer, and his face lights up.

"Love it. That's smart. A lot of the small guys get discouraged because they think they can't grapple, but I've  _seen_ you in action and I know takedowns are your thing. Do you wanna pick a big guy out of class, or do you want me?" He raises his eyebrows dramatically.

I blush inadvertently at his almost certainly deliberate choice of words, very aware that he's watching my face like a hawk. "You, yes. But I didn't know you were familiar with my work."

He leans in, and looks at me for permission. I nod, and he puts his hands on my shoulders, shakes his head like he's trying to clear out the cobwebs. "Of fucking  _course_ I know your work. Candice thinks the world of you, frankly, and so do I. It took about five minutes into the first match I saw. You're  _really_ good."

From somebody with his history and background, this means so much. I might not ever stop blushing.

Okay. Alright. 

I stop blushing about ten minutes later, when he tries to put me in a half-Nelson and I instinctively flip him ass-first onto the ground. He gets up, laughing, and tries to tackle me, but I stomp my way out and roll him up over my shoulders. He kicks out and drags me down with him, which just sets me up, intentionally or not, for a triangle he has to tap out of. When I let him go, the smaller guy asks me to walk through that again, and I do, and in minutes he's got one of the biggest guys in the room somersaulted into a fireman's carry like it ain't no thing.

When we wrap up, exhausted and sweaty, Joey drops me a high five and I hang on for a second longer than usual. I'm still the first one to let go.

* * *

The next day, as we're setting up, who should walk in but our favorite blonde bombshell.

"Just pretend I'm not even here," Candice says, but we all know that's about as possible as world peace. 

To go along with his character development thing from day 1, we decide to spend part of the week talking about and demo-ing our own entrances. Day 2 will start out with mine, and day 3 is all him.

Except it doesn't go  _quite_ as planned. I mean, these things are not terribly choreographed, but it's awfully hard to project myself as a fierce, smart-mouthed warrior when I reach the ring, climb up front, and turn to the audience only to see -

_Well, I'm dead. This is a hell of a payback for some glitter, that's for sure._

I'm absolutely wheezing like an asthmatic pug. Candice is giggling so hard I'm surprised she can even stand up, and the entire class is doing that awkward "I'm not sure if it's okay to laugh" face until one of them finally cracks and takes the dam with it. I end up facedown on the apron and my stomach hurts so much from trying to breathe I think I might puke, barely managing to wrangle myself onto my side.

Joey, meanwhile, is continuing to do a _very_ effective striptease down the entrance ramp, completely deadpan. The part of me that isn't about to pass out from oxygen deprivation is about to pass out for an entirely different reason, and I can't  _believe_ this has any right to be as hot as it is ridiculous.

"Where..." I gasp, punching myself in the chest as though that will get air into my lungs, "the... fuck... did you even  _get_ a sexy mailman costume?"

"Probably the same place you found all that glitter," he hollers across the room, still gyrating.

"...I don't know what you're talking about."

Afterwards, when we've finally recovered enough to get through the day's actual content, I tell Joey I'm going to run him back to the hotel, since I promised some of the boxing staff I'd stay later to spar with them. Dig out my roots a little. Whip a little ass. He asks if he can stay, watch instead, and I shrug. Why not?

Candice offers to tape my hands, but then corrects herself. "Actually, why don't you let Joey do it? I'm a little rusty."

_Bullshit,_ I think, but I agree, and the goosebumps I get when he touches my arm are something else. He's astonishingly gentle but thorough, going back over perhaps a little more than necessary. "Just double-checking," he says. 

When he finishes, I slam my gloves together a little harder than usual, like I can shake this off before anyone sees. 

When I'm about to duck into the ring, I turn to look back at him, and realize I'm biting my lip. Then I realize he's staring. 

Maybe I showboat a little. Maybe I trash-talk a little louder. Maybe I flip my hair out of my face when I don't really need to. Maybe I give up a few more hits than I would under normal circumstances.

* * *

"That was _awesome_ ," he says, wide-eyed, as we're walking towards the door. 

What can I say? Even distracted, I'm still pretty good at punching people. I'm sweaty and disgusting but his words make me feel like I should be glowing. 

Candice nudges my elbow. "Can we talk?"

"Yeah, sure! Just give me two seconds -" I reach for my notebook.

"Oh, you don't have to write anything for this one." Her face is so open and full of mischief that it actually makes me a little concerned. Joey holds his hand out, and I pass him my bag and the car keys.

We end up wandering into one of the side rooms and I absently start knocking the heavy bag around with my ungloved-but-still-taped knuckles. For some reason I just couldn't bring myself to peel it off yet. 

"I'm just gonna cut right to the chase: are you and Joey a thing? It's killing me not to know!"

I raise an eyebrow at her. "Joey?  _Me?_ You have got to be kidding." I hope it sounds cynical, but I can already tell my face is giving it away.  _Hope is the worst. Ugh._

"Don't look at me like that, hon," she says. "Stop me if I'm wrong, but there is _something_ going on here, so why are you being so weird about it? You're both available, and he's clearly into you - he wouldn't be acting like such a ginormous kid if he wasn't."

I ponder it for a second, trying to put words to the possibility. "It's just that... I don't get it. He literally acts like this with everyone. It's not like I'm jealous; I just don't think it's anything about me specifically. You of all people have to have seen that, yeah?" I shrug helplessly.

She pats my shoulder. "Not to be rude, but hell no. I have been around Joey for what feels like one billion years and there's a difference between what he normally does - which is, admittedly, flirty - and how he treats _you_ , which is dialed up to 11." She sees my face, and grins. "Try me. Look, you know how they tell you in third grade that if a boy pulls your pigtails, it means he likes you?"

I grumble something about toxic masculinity and she nods. "He's not gonna pull your pigtails or call you names or pick on you, because he's not like that. He's the kid that's gonna eat worms or fill your locker with pictures of Leonardo DiCaprio to try and make you laugh."

_Or draw fake mustaches on your face and shimmy at you in tiny shorts_ is strongly implied.

"I love you, but this is ridiculous. You can't possibly be serious."

"As a heart attack!" She scrunches her nose, tries to look annoyed and fails miserably. "Look, he's my best friend. And yes, he can be a total sleaze, but he's not a creep. If you don't want that from him, he's not gonna force it on you. But if you do want it, then you'd better _get_ it, because he's offering."

"I don't even know where to start with this," I say, blushing furiously. "He fucked up my entrance, for god's sake."

"And I know  _exactly_ how to get him back, but I'm only gonna tell you if you answer me honestly: do you like him?"

_Fine._ I'm done. "Yeah. Like, a lot. Way more than I probably should."

She grins and hands me a plastic bag from her purse. "Use these wisely, grasshopper-ish. I've been saving them for a special occasion."

"Yes, ma'am."

She pecks my cheek and heads for the door.

"One last thing," Candice calls, and I turn back. "You want to know where you stand? Get him to dance with you."

"I can't fucking dance!" I holler after her, but she's already giving me an infuriatingly cute homecoming-queen wave as she ducks back through and I shove the bag into the pocket of my shorts.

I get back into the car and Joey is drumming his fingers absently on the dashboard. He shoots me a sly glance. "What was that about?"

I try to fight the blush but I don't think it's happening. "I don't really want to talk about it. Is that cool?"

"Absolutely," he says, hitting me with that smile that makes me want to tell him everything I've ever thought.

* * *

Day 3, Joey's supposed to be demonstrating his entrance, but he's taking an awfully long time to come out. I'm biting my fist so hard I think I might have drawn blood when he finally pushes the curtain aside with a  _look_ on his face that's so hilariously peeved I think I might fall over for the second time in two days. 

In his hand, clearly fresh from his mouth, is his signature lollipop, except it's definitely... not. He's trying hard to look pissed as he snatches my water bottle and starts chugging, but his mustache is shaking with repressed laughter and I realize there's  _still_ a hint of glitter in there. And that I'm probably staring at his mouth longer than is socially appropriate. 

I don't know what got him first: the habanero extract in the coating, or the fact that each and every one of the candies now occupying his bag contains what was, at some point, a very live insect. In this particular instance, it's crickets, encased in translucent, strawberry-flavored sugar like something out of Jurassic Park on a stick.

"You..." he starts, but then gets a fit of the giggles rarely seen on a grown man and suddenly I'm wiping tears from my eyes. 

"Good thing you didn't stick it in your shorts, eh?" 

"Eat me," he glowers, and then bites his lower lip half to death trying to stay serious. 

"Oh no, I don't do _that_ unless you take me out for a nice dinner first. Or give me another striptease. Those shorts looked damned good on you." 

I swear to god, he actually blushes. 

_Thanks Candice. Wrestling is a **very** serious business. _

The rest of the day passes without much incident. The rookies are coming along great - they've finally stopped trying to impress us and started being themselves, which was half the point of all this goofy shit in the first place.

Joey and I sit close together like we've done every night, going over notes, and I realize I'm beyond jittery from all the cheerfulness and good energy in the room. He's got a drop of sweat rolling down into the scruff on his face and I have to genuinely sit on my hands to keep from wiping it off. 

I can't believe the buzz I've still got left in me when we break for the day and head for the parking lot, but there's nothing on the sparring schedule for tonight and I don't really feel like trying to burn it all off in the usual ways. 

_Maybe you should go to bed early tonight,_ I think. _Maybe it'll shut your brain up._

_Eh, fuck that._

Instead, I take a deep breath. "So. Um. Do you wanna go dancing tonight maybe? Candice said that's kinda your thing."

His face lights up. I start texting whatever contacts I have in this city to figure out what the hell is going on. Turns out there's live music in the park down the street from our hotel - salsa, big band, all kinds of stuff. We go back to our respective rooms to shower and change, I put on my finest sneakers, and we grab some dinner before heading out.

The band is hot as hell, and we spend the first several songs just jumping around and shaking our asses in each other's general direction. Then he offers me his hand. Before I take it, I look around dramatically as though there's some sort of trick, and he just chuckles and leaves enough room for the holy spirit. 

At least at first.

He's a great dancer. Maybe not the most technically proficient, but his instincts are rock solid and he catches every hit, every break. Me, a little less so, but I fake it okay - throwing people around for a living does give you a certain skillset when it comes to physically interacting with other humans. But still, perhaps most surprisingly, he keeps sending me out for shines, and even though I have no idea what I'm doing, I fake it as best I can - swiveling and making goofy faces in his direction, and he gives it right back to me until more than once we have to stop in mid-song because we're laughing so hard.

We finally take a break when the band does and end up sitting on a planter at the edge of the plaza that serves as the dancefloor. He hasn't really stopped touching me since we  _started_ dancing, and if I'm being honest, I don't really want him to stop. Like, maybe ever.

He looks at me so seriously I start to wonder if I've got something on my face, then leans in and brushes that fucking hair out of my eyes. I think maybe I need a haircut. _But then again, maybe you don't._ He wants to know why I'm chuckling to myself, but I can't really explain it.

The band picks back up, and we shuffle back onto the floor. It's a nice slow drag standard, so I figure maybe it's a good time to get brave. I hold out my hand this time, and before anyone, mostly myself, can stop me, I wrap my other arm around his waist. He hesitates, and I'm about to let go when he shakes his head and drops his inside hand on my shoulder, then leans in. "Sorry," he mutters into my ear. "Just had to switch my brain around."

And once again, my fucking mouth kicks in. "I figured a nice guy like you would go both ways." He buries his face in my shoulder to cover a laugh and I turn  _bright_ red at the contact. 

_comes a rainstorm_  
_put your rubbers on your feet_  
_comes a snowstorm_  
_you can get a little heat_  
_comes love, nothing can be done_

He strolls out with a dramatic hair flip and I bite back a grin before twirling him back to my side, letting the momentum take us around through the rest of the verse.

_don't try hiding_  
_cause there isn't any use_  
_you'll start sliding_  
_when your heart turns on the juice_

"I didn't realize this song was so _dirty_ ," he mutters in my ear, and I slug him in the shoulder to keep from completely losing it.

I send him out again, cross over, and when I turn back, he's aiming finger guns at me and, purely on instinct, I wink back at him. The whole dance is just a blur of hip curves and smiles and nudges and me doing overly dramatic vertical jumps to clear his head on turns. He seems to be enjoying himself. I  _hope_ he's enjoying himself. 

_that's all, brother,_  
_if you ever been in love_  
_that's all, brother,_  
_you know what I'm speaking of_  
  
_comes a nightmare_  
_you can always stay awake_  
_comes depression_  
_you may get another break_  
_comes love, nothing can be done_

I lead him into a tiny dip at the end, and when I pull him back up, he's grinning like a fool. I let him go, and he's so excited that before he can stop himself, he grabs my face and kisses me.

For one long second, that's all there is, but then it's like snapping a rubber band: when he lets go, he freezes, and I see something in his eyes that reads like fear.

_Shit. Fuck. Oh no._

I don't really know what to say, so I take his arm and all but drag him off the dancefloor. He's wide-eyed, biting his lower lip like it's gonna give away some secret, looking totally freaked by what he just did, and my heart sinks.

It's not me. It's never me.

"You didn't mean to do that," I say, and he nods.

"I'm sorry."

I shrug. "See you tomorrow, Joey." Then I turn and walk off.

I make it about half a block before he catches up, carefully calling my name, not trying to make a scene. He asks me to wait, and I cross my arms.  _That wasn't bad enough? Now I have to hear the exact details?_

"I'm sorry," he says, running a hand through his thick hair. His sunglasses are stuck in his chest pocket, and he's about to stare a nuclear hole into the sidewalk. His shoulders are high and tense and it's like unclenching his teeth enough to talk is a Herculean effort. It's the most uncomfortable I've seen him. _Enough to freak out the, for god's sake, King of Sleaze_ _? You_ _must have really done it now._

"I know. It's fine. You didn't mean it, and that's fine." _It's not really fine._  "I just need a break so I can deal with my shit, okay? This particular joke didn't really work for me, and I think we should probably call it quits on this trend."

"It's not... I think we may be saying the same... I didn't mean to do it without _asking_ ," he finally blurts out. "It wasn't a joke, and the reason I'm sorry isn't for kissing you. Well, it is, but not like that. It's because I sprang it on you and you didn't really have a say in the matter. It was disrespectful. I should have asked, and I fucked up."

Now it's his turn to walk away, and mine to run in front and try to meet his eyes. He stops, but won't look at me, and I don't force it. "Joey. Please. I've been sending you the strongest goddamn  _Please Kiss My Sorry Self_ vibes I could possibly come up with all night. You didn't read it wrong. It was a moment, and not only do I not regret it, well, I  _wanted_ you to do it."

He finally looks up, and there's the faintest hint of a smile on his eyes. "Really?"

"Really. You were right."

"It's... It's been a while. I'm still sorry I didn't ask." He stuffs his hands in his pockets and I half expect him to start kicking imaginary rocks.

"Fair enough." A beat. "Do it again."

He cocks his head in confusion, so I go on. "Ask me to kiss you again. Do you want to?"

He finally lets the smile loose and it lights up his face from ear to ear. "I do. Do you want to kiss me?"

I step up until our foreheads are touching. "Like nobody's fuckin' business."

He kisses me so thoroughly and with such utter disregard for anything else in the universe that a bunch of drunk college kids walking past us to their bus stop start to cheer. I peek out of the corner of my eye and then, on impulse, stick out my hand so I'm collecting high-fives from everyone who passes. Joey, meanwhile, is flipping them the bird. Everybody, including us, is trying and failing not to laugh. His mustache tickles, but it's quickly drowned out by the _things_ his body is doing to me and I couldn't bring myself to care for anything in the world.

* * *

It takes us about five times as long as it should to get back to the hotel. When we finally stumble out of the elevator, he genuinely walks me to my door, but I'm trying to walk him to his, and we just end up stuck in the hallway trying to out-polite each other until I finally ask him if he wants to come in. He nods, breathing heavy, and my hands shake as I try to get the lock.

As soon as we get inside, he asks, "Can I?" I tell him yes, please, and he leans me back, pressing our mouths deeply together, uncannily managing to make the act of pinning me to the door tender and sweet. He's more delicate than I expected, gentler, but somehow I love it more; the intensity he gives me is breathtaking and I find myself pulling him into me as close as I can possibly get. He just  _feels_ so good, soft and solid against my body, and he keeps making these _noises_ into my mouth that are complete, soaking filth. I'm so wet I'm surprised he can't feel it, but then he asks to touch me and oh, he _feels_ it alright. It sends a shudder through his body to know what a mess I am for him, and when I realize that, the string of profanity I let out into his ear has his hand shivering over the clothed, aching apex of my thighs.

"How are you so perfect?" I grit out, and he laughs, kissing his way down my throat.

" _Perfect_ is this wobbly, shaking person beneath me," he mutters into my chest, and I almost think I hear a growl coming from his. "Can you stay like this for me? I want to get on my knees and fucking  _worship_ you. Get you all over my face." One of his hands is braced against the wall, but the other begins to make its way up my ribcage.

Just the thought has me on some other planet, and I have to remind myself to breathe enough to answer. " _Please._ I love the way you ask." His thumb brushes over my nipple, and I almost come off the door in an a attempt to get as much of my chest into his hand as I possibly can. He chuckles, and drops to one knee, sliding his fingers to the buttons on my shirt.

"This okay?" he asks, fumbling with the top one, and his voice on the sensitive skin of my torso is almost too much. I clutch his face to me and cover his hand with my own, encouraging him as he works his way down. When my shirt is gone, I reach for his, leaning down to kiss him deeply while I meander over his buttons. The warmth of his bare chest against my body is completely overwhelming, and I'm reduced to a _useless_ pile of noises as I help him shove my jeans and shorts over my hips and peel all my remaining clothes from my body.

He looks up from between my legs, and gently lifts one of my thighs, hooking it over his shoulder. "Do you want this?" I can feel his breath on my cunt and I'm pretty sure if I closed my eyes I would just come, but I can't tear my face away from his. I might be a dripping, quavering wreck, but he's about a half-second away from full-blown pleading to have me in his mouth, and the realization that we are both equally in way over our heads sinks me in just that much deeper.

I find my words again. "More than anything. Please. Let me come all over you, mess you up, make you understand how much I fuckin'  _need_ this."

He lets out another one of those filthy fucking groans and buries himself between my legs. He just keeps  _asking_ for things, even though I'm pretty sure he can read my mind, and it makes it ten times hotter when, with my permission, he hooks two fingers inside me and drops sloppy kisses all over, urging my hips up to make messy circles over his tongue.

I've been on a razor's edge for I don't even know how long, and it doesn't take much before I'm bucking, hard, feeling his unshaven face on every sensitive part, feeling explosive, like I could fuck the life out of him many times over. My fingers are tangled in his hair and I'm hanging on for dear life, tugging him as close to the core of me as I can possibly reach.

He lays his tongue out flat and lets me ride out the aftershocks until I literally can't stand up and slump to the floor, tasting myself on his mouth. My eyelids are fluttering and I can't move and yet when he asks permission to put me to bed, I agree and then pull him on top of me, hoping and praying he's not done.

And with just a word from me, he's not done, no _sir._ Even as I'm asking, even as I'm digging a condom out of the bag next to my bed, I can tell he's ready to drop the whole thing if he thinks I'm fucked-out enough to just fall asleep on him. But I'm not about to let that happen as long as he's willing, and he certainly is.

His jeans are low on his hips, and I drag my fingers through the hair on his chest and stomach, kissing any part of him he can get within my reach. I flick my tongue over his nipple before turning my attention, and my teeth, to those wonderful collarbones. Suddenly he's the weak one, ready to collapse on top of me as I work my hands slowly down and undo his fly.

He's thick and hard in my hands, and gasps deeply at the first feel of me on his bare cock. As hard as I just came, there's this ache in there now, and I need as much of him as I can get. I tell him so as he kicks the rest of his clothes off, and after I roll the condom on, he smirks and pulls me in for one bruiser of a kiss as I hook my legs around his waist and start to guide him inside. As soon as the head of his cock touches me, I swear, and he stops. "You okay?" he breathes. I nod furiously, and he laughs, reaching down with one hand to wrap his fingers around mine and his cock. "You want what I've got?"

"So, so, so much," I growl. "Fuck me. I need all of you."

He gives me the biggest grin. _Smartass._ "Happy to oblige." Then he slams himself home and bottoms out and I can't help the scream that comes out of me because _holy fuck he's fucking me and it's fucking perfect_ and every time our bodies meet I get lightheaded. 

He's looking down at me with his hair all in his eyes, and hunger and teasing on his face, and I can barely pull together what it takes to look back. 

"Do you want this?" I ask him, not precisely sure why my brain chose that exact moment. 

"Like nobody's fuckin' business," he parrots. "I want to do terrible, filthy fucking things with you for as long as I possibly can." 

At that, I cup his face in one hand and slide the other between us, circling my clit as he kisses me. It's like everything there could have been between us was just fuel for the bonfire, and his body is heavy on mine but it feels better, safer, than I ever imagined. When I come again, it's with his forehead pressed to mine. 

He's perfect. He's beautiful and confusing and intense and attention-grabbing and ridiculous and I can't imagine that I ever wanted anything else. He makes me feel like I've been out in the sun too long, looking at me with those half-lidded eyes, and I feel him start to grow sloppy and erratic as he comes apart under the flashes of praise I'm able to eke out of my now-raspy throat. 

A large part of me just wants to be filled with his come, have it dripping out of me, condoms be damned, but he's got other, _equally_ hot plans, asking my permission yet again before pulling out and coming all over my chest. 

I drag my fingers through the mess and lick them clean as he gawks, and then he's right there sucking them into his mouth and lapping up whatever remains on my skin.

He flops back on the bed and I curl up, feeling the warm press of his chest hair against my face. He wraps an arm around my waist, then reaches the other one down to the clothes heap on the floor, into his pants pocket. Plastic crinkles, and I realize he's putting something in his mouth. I burst out laughing, and he turns to me with an eyebrow raised.

"What?" He smirks around the lollipop stick. "Bugs are really high in protein! You want one before round two?" 

I'm too exhausted to laugh, but somehow I do anyway.

"You are  _so_ weird." 

He fires back, "Oh please. I'm not the one who asked for a striptease sequel."

"And I am _not_ letting you anywhere near my face or my junk while your mouth is covered in... habanero juice or whatever."

He grins, and then tries to pass it off with a shrug. "Kinda brought that one on yourself."


End file.
